novelSusiti Chapter 122 Dover's Flashlight
Chapter 122 Dover's Flashlight
Chapter 122 Dover's Flashlight
15:10, Baiya Hotel, Main Banquet Hall.
A huge crystal chandelier cast a soft glow, illuminating the long table.
The table was covered with a snow-white linen tablecloth, and the silver cutlery gleamed under the light.
The air was thick with a dizzying, old-world extravagance: the rich, smoky aroma of Aberdeen Angus beef ribs slowly seared, complemented by the sweetness of thyme and red wine sauce; mixed with the distinctive cedar and aged tobacco flavor of Churchill's favorite Romeo and Juliet Cuban cigars.
This was an extremely luxurious cocktail party.
Along the Kent coastline, while most British families were beginning to carefully budget for the impending rationing, it felt like another time and place.
To appease the newly returned officers, Churchill specially requested a batch of 1928 Bordeaux Champagne from the Admiralty's cellars.
The officers of the 51st Highland Division and the survivors of the Cold Creek Guards were all wearing brand-new uniforms and holding crystal goblets.
They looked like a group of well-dressed gentlemen, but they ate like a pack of hungry wolves.
Churchill was standing in a corner of the hall, a cigar between his fingers, talking to Major General Victor Fortune, commander of the 51st Division.
The old fat man had his signature resolute expression on his face, but there was a hint of weariness in his eyes.
Music flowed, people talked. Everything seemed so dignified, so beautiful. As if the devastating defeat across the strait had never happened.
Just then, the door opened.
Arthur walked in.
Instead of taking the wine from the waiter's tray, he walked straight to the center of the hall.
There stood a musician playing the piano, his fingertips playing Chopin's Nocturne.
Arthur made a gesture, and the musician immediately stopped, the music abruptly ceasing.
The conversations in the hall gradually faded away.
All eyes instinctively turned to the excessively young brigadier general.
A sweating adjutant ran in through a side door and whispered a few words in Arthur's ear.
Arthur did not answer immediately.
His originally stern face fell into a long, deathly silence.
His fingers tightened slightly around the wine glass. A certain light dimmed in his deep blue eyes, replaced by a heavy, oppressive weight, like lead.
After a moment, he took a deep breath, nodded, and gestured for his adjutant to step down.
He picked up a silver spoon from the table and tapped it lightly against his wine glass.
Ding-ding—the crisp sound echoed in the deathly silent hall, yet it carried no trace of celebratory joy.
"Gentlemen," Arthur's voice wasn't loud, but it was incredibly penetrating. The commanding presence he exuded, honed on the battlefield, instantly gave him control of the entire scene.
"Before we celebrate our return home, there's something I have to tell you personally."
He paused for a moment, his azure gaze sweeping across the crowd before finally settling on a group of officers dressed in Cold Creek Guard uniforms.
They all had red group badges on their cuffs.
"Just ten minutes ago," Arthur said calmly, without choking back tears, simply stating a fact, "Major Edward Hawke, commander of the 1st Battalion of the Cold Creek Guards, stopped breathing in the final moments before the USS Rodney docked."
A low murmur arose from the crowd.
It was the sound of being struck in the chest with a heavy hammer.
"He was badly wounded in the battle at Flne," Arthur said in a low voice. "That day, on the stretcher, he grabbed my collar and handed me command of the First Battalion. He ordered me to take these brothers home."
"He survived the bombardment at Dover, the arduous retreat, and even the damned English Channel." Arthur stared at the wine glass in his hand, his eyes dark and unfathomable. "But the infection from his wounds eventually took him. He was a tough guy; he held on until he saw the White Cliffs of Dover."
"He saw his home. But he couldn't get up there."
Several young lieutenants of the Imperial Guard reddened their eyes and lowered their heads.
"Lift your head up." Arthur's voice suddenly turned stern, like a whip lashing through the air.
"He stayed until the very last moment, making sure everyone was on board."
Arthur raised his glass high above his head. "He didn't die on the run. He died on the charge."
"For the Royal Guard, this is the best ending. He is not a loser, he is a hero returning to his rank."
"To Major Edward Hawke."
No one speaks.
Arthur flipped his wrist.
With a splash, he slowly poured the expensive, golden Bordeaux champagne onto the floor.
Immediately afterwards, Major Ryder poured out his drink, Sergeant McTavish poured out his drink, and Major General Fortune poured out his drink.
Churchill took off his hat and watched the scene silently.
With a series of splashes, hundreds of officers poured their liquor onto the floor in perfect unison. The liquid splattered, soaking their brand-new leather boots. The strong aroma of liquor filled the hall, mingling with a solemn sense of ritual.
This wine isn't for people to drink; it's for this land, and for the brothers who couldn't come back.
"Homage to the Imperial Guard!" A deep roar erupted from the crowd.
"Respect to the Imperial Guard."
The ceremony has ended.
Arthur placed the empty glass on the table with a soft "thud".
"Now, gentlemen," he said, his expression changing, a faint smile playing on his lips, "eat. Fill your bellies. Because the Germans won't leave us lunch."
The atmosphere became lively again, though tinged with a sense of heaviness, but more so with a feeling of triumph after surviving a catastrophe.
To liven things up, Major Ryder, holding a chicken leg in one hand and waving a copy of the Daily Mail in the other, squeezed into a group of staff officers from the 51st Division.
"Look! That's our boss!" Ryder pointed at the refined-looking major in the newspaper, spitting as he spoke. "This photo is too polite! He looks like a sissy! You haven't seen him in Calgary!"
"That Guderian? Ha!" Ryder took a swig of his drink and began his embellishment: "That German command vehicle was only ten meters away from us! Ten meters! When Guderian heard his superior cursing him in German over the radio, he was so scared he stammered! I heard it with my own ears! The superior told him: 'Go back to Berlin and drink milk! Otherwise, I'll shove your tank into your—' Cough cough, anyway, it infuriated the old man!"
A burst of laughter erupted around them.
On this afternoon filled with the shadow of death, they needed such a myth.
But the laughter quickly subsided. A man stood beside Brigadier General Sterling.
That was Major General Victor Fortune, commander of the 51st Hill Division.
This elderly Scottish general, over fifty years old and with gray hair, held a full glass of whisky in his hand, but refused the champagne.
Although his rank was still higher than Arthur's at the moment, his expression resembled that of a knight facing a monarch.
He didn't laugh.
He glanced around at his men with his bloodshot eyes—the Scottish lads who were originally destined to surrender at St. Valery and dig potatoes in German prisoner-of-war camps.
"Stand up." Major General Fortune's voice was thick with a Scottish accent.
Without any hesitation, nearly a hundred officers from the 51st Highland Division in the banquet hall pushed back their chairs and stood up.
Their movements were perfectly synchronized, even more so than on the parade ground.
They looked at Arthur with eyes devoid of their usual prejudice against "Englishmen," filled only with pure respect.
"Gentlemen," Major General Fortune turned to Arthur, raising his glass, "we all know Major Ryder is exaggerating. Guderian won't be brought to tears, and the German tanks aren't so easy to deal with."
The old general paused, his tone becoming extremely solemn: "But one thing is true."
"If it weren't for this person, if it weren't for his madness, if it weren't for him turning back to help us—"
"Tonight, the flag of the 51st Division will be hung in a museum in Berlin, and we will be counting stars behind the barbed wire."
Major General Fortune took a deep breath, raised his glass high, and said in a booming voice, "I'm a Scotsman, and I don't like to praise the English. But tonight is an exception."
"Homage to the shepherd who brought us home!"
"Respect to Brigadier General Sterling!"
"Homage to the Brigadier General!" nearly a hundred Scottish officers roared.
They tilted their heads back and drank the strong liquor in their glasses in one gulp.
The sound was so loud that the crystal chandelier in the banquet hall trembled slightly.
Arthur stood aside, watching the unruly Highlanders.
He didn't say anything, but silently raised his glass in return.
The RTS system popped up a line of small text in the corner of his field of vision:
[Reputation Unlocked: The Loyalty of Highlanders]
15:40, by the window in the banquet hall.
Away from the group of boastful men, Arthur stood alone before the huge floor-to-ceiling window, gazing at the bustling docks outside. Cranes were hoisting equipment bearing German writing ashore, looking like they were carrying spoils of war, or perhaps some ominous curse.
"Give me a cigarette, young master." A slightly hoarse female voice sounded beside him.
Arthur didn't turn around. He took a silver cigarette case out of his pocket, flicked it open, and handed it over.
A slender but rough hand took a cigarette.
That's Lieutenant Jeanne.
This liaison officer of the French 1st Army was no longer the Valkyrie with her face covered in paint.
She washed the dirt off her face and changed into a borrowed uniform from the British Women's Auxiliary Team (ATS).
It was a khaki-colored, belted uniform, slightly too big for her tall figure, and the fabric looked cheap and rough.
But she cleverly cinched her waist with a safety pin and rolled up her sleeves, still managing to exude a Parisian woman's chic and stubbornness.
She lit a cigarette, took a deep breath, and the smoke she exhaled blurred on the glass window.
"This British outfit is awful," Jeanne said, tugging at the collar with disgust. "The fabric is as rough as sandpaper, and the tailoring is a disaster. Is this what British women usually wear?"
"Just wear this," Arthur said, looking at her profile. "It takes time to get a dress made on Savile Row in London. Besides, you look better than all the other English women in this room."
Jeanne paused for a moment, then turned to look at Arthur.
Her eyes held a complex light—gratitude, dependence, and deep despair.
"Young Master." Her voice lowered, no longer as forceful as it had been inside the tank.
"France is finished. That old bastard Wei Gang will definitely surrender. My home—is gone too."
She looked out the window at the grey English Channel, in the direction of her homeland, now filled with swastika flags.
"I am now a slave of a conquered nation, General Sterling." Jeanne laughed self-deprecatingly, a forced smile playing on her lips as she tried to conceal the fear in her eyes. "If I were to end up on the streets of London—would you need a maid? Or perhaps a mistress who would shine your shoes and warm your bed? I've heard that nobles like you have a taste for that."
It was a joke, but it was more than just a joke.
This is a man's tentative attempt to grab onto the last piece of driftwood before he drowns.
Arthur did not speak.
He turned around to face Jeanne.
He did not avoid that provocative yet incredibly vulnerable gaze.
He reached out, his long, slender fingers gently touching Jeanne's collar.
That was a button on the ATS uniform, buttoned crookedly.
Arthur lowered his head, his expression focused, as if he were defusing a bomb, as he helped her unbutton her clothes and then buttoned them back up.
His fingertips accidentally brushed against her slender neck, and he felt her pulse pounding rapidly.
"Stewardwood Estate doesn't tolerate idlers, Lieutenant." Arthur's voice was soft but clear.
He raised his head, his deep blue eyes looking directly at Jeanne, and made a promise: "I need neither maids nor mistresses. London has plenty of those things."
"But if we can drive tanks, if we still want to take our home back—" Arthur straightened her collar insignia and patted her shoulder: "I can consider reserving a spot for you. In my custody."
Jeanne's eyes instantly reddened.
She bit her lip, staring intently at Arthur, trying hard not to let her tears fall.
Click. A flash of light went off outside the window.
Eisenstaedt, the star photographer for Life magazine, was crouching on the terrace and capturing this moment through the glass window.
The scene is fixed: a handsome and aloof British general, with his head bowed, gently adjusts the collar insignia of an exiled French female officer.
The female officer looked up, her eyes filled with a sense of heartbreak and adoration.
The background is a busy naval port and a gray sky.
This photograph will appear in the pages of Life magazine next week, under the title: "Gone with the Wind: The Dover Version".
(Gone with the Wind, Dover Edition).
It will convince countless American readers that even amidst the ruins of war, there is still the brilliance and romance of humanity.
16:00, backstage lounge of the banquet hall.
As the party reached its climax, Churchill gave Arthur a meaningful look. Arthur understood, and under the pretext of changing clothes, followed Churchill's personal male servant backstage.
The room was draped with thick curtains, and only a dim, yellowish table lamp was on. The air was filled with the scent of expensive cologne and a certain unsettling atmosphere.
Churchill followed him in, carrying a glass of brandy. On the table in front of him was a black box. The box was already open.
"Arthur," Churchill pointed to the box, a smug smile playing on his lips. "The first half, Arthur did very well. He's the Earl's son, a gentleman of the British Empire, the commander who knows how to use champagne to mourn the dead. That's good; it'll appease those old fogies at home."
"But the second half—" Churchill stood up, walked to the box, and ran his fingers over the clothes inside.
"We need to give those reporters some juicy scoop. We need to teach that little mustache a lesson."
"Put it on."
Arthur walked over. Inside the box lay a uniform. It wasn't the British khaki, nor the French dark blue.
It was pure black.
A set of SS flag captain uniforms made with extremely high craftsmanship, so exquisite that it would make your jaw drop.
The silver skull collar insignia gleamed eerily in the dim light. The swastika armband featured a red eye.
This is the outfit Arthur wore in France to deceive the Germans—a mass-produced replica hastily made by the intelligence department based on the description.
A bald old tailor was standing to one side, holding a ruler and a safety pin.
He was one of London’s best tailors, but at that moment he looked constipated.
"Sir." The tailor helped Arthur pick up the black coat with his tongs, muttering to himself, "Although I am Jewish, I must admit—these German designs are a disgrace to tailors—and a miracle."
"Look at this cinched waist, look at the placement of these shoulder pads—they've used all their product reviews to make licenses to kill. This outfit is completely unsuitable for raising your arms to work; it's only good for standing around looking cool. But this fabric—it damn easily attracts dust."
Arthur stretched out his arms and let the tailor help him put on this "devil's skin".
The cold silk lining slid against his skin, and the tight cut instantly bound his body, forcing him to straighten his back.
He walked up to the mirror, and the person in the mirror had changed.
His blond hair was meticulously combed back with hair wax, his pale skin and cold eyes contrasting sharply with the black uniform and silver skull. The suffocating oppression of a servant, the arrogance and evil of a "superior race," was overwhelming.
RTS was bombarding him with pop-up ads:
[High-level disguise of enemy faction detected]
Current camouflage level: 100%
[Deterrence Level: Extremely High (Fear Aura Activates Automatically)]
"Damn it." Arthur looked at himself in the mirror and tugged at his tightly cleaved collar. "If those Germans I killed saw this, they'd probably come back to life in anger."
Churchill, with a cigar in his mouth, looked Arthur up and down and nodded in satisfaction.
"This is the effect of my dragon-like appearance."
"This afternoon, Arthur wasn't human. He was Little Mustache's nightmare."
"Go tell Quan Shicai how we tricked these devils."
16:15, Baiya Hotel, Main Banquet Hall.
The doors to the banquet hall slowly opened again. This time, there was no musicians playing.
Arthur walked in again. This time, he wasn't wearing the brigadier general's uniform that represented the dignity of the British Empire. It was pitch black.
The power was suddenly cut off, and the once noisy banquet hall fell into a deathly silence in an instant.
Hundreds of officers, chatting and laughing, held their wine glasses high in the air. Those were from the 51st Army, dressed in brand-new British uniforms.
The officers' pupils contracted sharply. It was a Pavlovian reflex—for the past two weeks, this black uniform had represented death, execution, and absolute fear.
It was a physiological aversion ingrained in one's very bones.
Arthur did not speak.
He was wearing those black high-top leather boots, stepping slowly on the floor.
Click, click, click.
Every footstep seemed to land on the light-hearted person's leaps.
He walked into the hall, coldly surveying his surroundings with an indifferent gaze, as if he were looking at a flock of lambs to the slaughter.
The deathly silence lasted for a full five seconds.
Suddenly, a loud whistle broke the silence.
"Alas—!" That was Sergeant McTavish.
This guy is already drunk; his face is flushed red.
Instead of being afraid, he excitedly jumped onto the table.
"That's it! Guys! Look!" Major Ryder realized what was going on, laughing as he raised his glass and pointed at Arthur. "That's the guy! I knew it looked awkward in that British uniform, sir!"
"The officer was wearing this, and he was berating the German colonel like he was scolding a grandson! I swear, he looked more like a Nazi than a real Nazi at that moment!"
A whoosh! The fear instantly crumbled, replaced by wild cheers and applause.
"For the flag captain!"
"For Sterling!"
"For the sake of the con artist!"
"Trick Bai into coming here!"
Su Yanlan, a soldier from the 51st Division, burst into laughter.
They were no longer afraid, for the man in that uniform was their commander, the one who had completely fooled the Germans.
The god who brought them back from hell.
This is a kind of dark humor that only brothers in the trenches can understand—we have overcome fear, so we laugh at it.
Just then, the door leading to the terrace was pushed open.
The long-waiting reporters surged in like a tidal wave.
"My God—" The New York Times reporter at the front nearly fell over in shock, followed closely by the Life reporter.
Magazine photographer Eisenstaedt was also stunned.
They had imagined countless scenarios of Arthur Stewart's appearance: a wounded soldier with bandages, a dignified British general, or a still-exhausted warrior. But they never imagined seeing this scene: an Englishman in the uniform of a high-ranking SS officer, surrounded by a group of Anglo-French soldiers like rock stars, receiving their cheers and whistles.
This scene is absurd. But it's also incredibly shocking.
Bang! Bang! Bang! The rapid firing of dozens of old-fashioned SpeedGraphic cameras blended together, sounding just like machine gun fire.
The flashes of magnesium powder from the cameras went off one after another, illuminating the dimly lit hall like a thunderstorm.
The pungent smell of magnesium powder wafted out, mingling with the aroma of alcohol, creating a psychedelic atmosphere.
Churchill stood in the corner and pointed to the scene, where the ambassador of the country, Joseph P. Kennedy, was being held in shackles.
"Look, sir," the Prime Minister's voice was full of laughter and pride, "that's why I said we could win. Because we can not only defeat the devil, we can also outwit the devil."
Arthur stopped amidst the barrage of camera flashes.
He pulled a silver cigarette case from the pocket of his SS uniform—it even had the name of some unfortunate German officer engraved on it. He took out a German-made Kiel cigarette and put it in his mouth.
"Snap." He lit the fire, took a deep drag, and casually exhaled a smoke ring.
A reckless reporter from the Daily Mirror (with party ties) pushed forward and asked loudly, "General Stewart!"
"Are you being disrespectful to the army by wearing the enemy's uniform? Does this imply some kind of political injustice?"
The room fell silent. Everyone stared at Arthur.
That's a very pointed question.
Arthur, cigarette between his fingers, tilted his head slightly and looked at the reporter. His gaze instantly turned cold, revealing a pure SS-style ruthlessness.
"Offend?" He chuckled, his tone dripping with mockery. "This was 'lent' to me by Air Force Commander Herman Gower."
"Our road was blocked. So I asked him, 'Sir, how can I bring these ten thousand brothers home if I don't wear this?'" Arthur spread his hands, his black leather gloves rustling. "He didn't say anything. Since he was being so polite, I took it as a yes."
"I'm a very easygoing person. Since this can save my life, I'll reluctantly wear it. By the way—" He flicked his cigarette ash, a piece of it falling to the floor: "The material is nice, but I still prefer Su Yanlan's wool. This thing is too tight, it's uncomfortable."
Laughter erupted again.
The reporter's difficult question was instantly defused into a joke.
Another journalist from the producing country asked loudly, "General! Some say that the heavy equipment abandoned during Guan Yi's retreat is a complete failure of the army. What's your opinion?"
Arthur's smile vanished.
He took a step forward, and his imposing aura made the reporter instinctively take a step back.
"Discard?" Arthur shook his head, his voice low and dangerous. "No, sir. You've misread one word."
"I'm just storing them temporarily. The ships going home are too crowded; I can fit people, but not those metal lumps."
"The Germans better clean those tanks and oil them for me," Arthur said to the camera, to that dark lens, as if speaking to the man with the mustache across the strait. "Because next time I go to collect them, I'll be charging some interest."
"For example—their capital, Berlin."
17:00, Dover Terrace.
The press conference was drawing to a close. According to Churchill's script, now a real "final portrait" was needed. A portrait worthy of the cover of Life magazine, worthy of being pasted on the faces of cowboys and ranch foremen.
Arthur took off his overly frightening SS jacket and put on his British brigadier general's uniform with red pincers.
But he wasn't wearing a British army overcoat.
He took a black leather coat from his adjutant.
It was a black leather coat belonging to a German Luftwaffe general, with a fur collar, and reaching to the knees.
Instead of putting his arms into his sleeves, he casually draped the garment over his shoulders.
This way of dressing made him look less like a proper British officer and more like a warlord who had just conquered Shicai.
Inside are British military uniforms, and outside are German war trophies.
He also had a Lu Yan P08 pistol that he had seized from a German officer tucked into his waistband.
The powerful visual impact—"I'm wearing your clothes, holding your gun, and killing people"—is incomparable to any language.
"Look here, General!"
"Slightly turn to the side!"
Arthur stood on the ruins of a destroyed breakwater. In the background was the massive battleship "Rodney," its dark 16-inch main guns pointing skyward. The sea breeze was strong, blowing up the black leather coat draped over his shoulders, revealing the bright red brigadier general's insignia underneath.
He didn't smile. Nor did he make Churchill's defiant "V" sign. He simply rested one hand on his Luyan pistol at his waist, head slightly raised, staring at the camera with a chilling calm.
That's the look a lion gives its prey.
Bang! Eisenstaedt pressed the shutter. This moment was frozen in time.
This photograph was later titled "The Avenging Angel of Dover".
Dover). It will grace the cover of Life magazine next week, becoming the toughest nut to crack in this desperate summer.
18: 00.
The noise finally subsided.
The reporters left satisfied, carrying full rolls of film, tomorrow's front-page headlines, and the story of Guan Yi, the "Angel of Revenge."
The once crowded terrace instantly became empty, with only the whistling sound of the sea breeze blowing through the ruins and the lingering pungent smell of burning magnesium powder in the air.
Arthur sat alone in the shadows of the lounge, having shed all pretense.
He felt a deep, lingering weariness.
Playing a "complete war totem" on this stage is far more tiring than commanding a battle in a pit in Calais.
He didn't look at the RTS system interface.
There's no need for pop-up windows or cold, impersonal data streams to tell him the results.
He knew very well that he had won.
Starting tomorrow, the entire world of Freedom and Talent will know his name.
He was no longer the spoiled brat of the St. Woods family; he was the face of the British Empire, the sharpest sword in Churchill's hand, and a god among countless vengeful spies.
This is capital, political capital that is even more valuable than the gold in the Bicesterwood family's vaults.
Arthur pulled out his last cigarette from his pocket and lit it.
The firelight flickered in the dim room, illuminating his sharp eyes that remained even in the darkness.
He turned his head and looked at the sky outside the window as it gradually darkened.
The lighthouse in Dover has been lit, its beam piercing the fog of the strait, but unable to illuminate the darkness on the other side.
It's over. The idol-making movement is over.
Now, it's time to deal with some real "personal matters".
Arthur stubbed out his cigarette in the crystal ashtray and watched the wisp of smoke disappear.
"Alright." Arthur stood up, walked to the mirror, and adjusted the collar of his brand-new brigadier general's uniform one last time.
He looked at himself in the mirror, a meaningful sneer curling at the corner of his mouth, as if he were looking through the mirror at that ancient manor far out on the outskirts of London, and that stubborn old man.
"Now that the movie is over, it's time to collect your pay."
He pushed Yi aside and stepped into the night, his voice low and deep: "Go home."